Page 5 of Pistols and Plush Toys

“You need to eat Nikolai,” Meredith said, narrowing her eyes. “And not just whatever deep-fried, double glazed, potato laden monstrosity catches your eye at three in the morning.”

“I’m wanting my food tasting good,” Nikolai said defensively.

He understood Meredith’s concerns about his bloodwork and cholesterol and whatever, but a greasy burger with a few glasses of vodka in the small hours of the night had saved him from worse on more than one occasion.

There were ugly things in Nikolai that festered at night, a loneliness that dragged at him. If he could fill it with some greasy food and a cold drink, that was better than the alternative. It kept him working, kept him functional, kept him from lingering on his broken past and his empty future.

Unfortunately, Meredith had gotten her hands on his last blood panel and taken the information personally. The string of personal chefs was a compromise between them.

It wasn’t his fault that none of them could cook a decent Russian dish.

Meredith tutted. “I still have the stack of resumes, but I won’t bring a new employee in right now. Too much risk.”

“Yes,” Nikolai said.

“Two weeks,” Meredith said like a threat. “You’re not going to french fry and soft serve yourself into an early grave.”

“American food is good.” Nikolai said. There was a ping from his phone. “I thought you were having to go.”

She gave him an icy look that told him if she didn’t value her own self-control so much, she probably would’ve reached over to cuff him across the head.

“I am,” she said menacingly. “I’ll just tell the chef on my way out that we’ll not need his services then?”

“Yes,” Nikolai said stiffly. “Thank you.”

Meredith let out another audible sigh, and took the plate and herself from the room.

Nikolai reached for his phone to check the last message. It was a text from Alex, confirming that they were fifteen minutes out and everything was continuing as planned.

Good .

Fifteen minutes later his phone pinged again to tell him they were at the gate. Nikolai had been idly reading emails to pass the time, and he shoved his phone in his pocket and stood. He wasn’t anxious, because he didn’t get anxious, but there was a swirling energy in the pit of his stomach.

He took a deep breath and pushed the feeling away. He glanced at his bar cabinet and the bottles inside.

It was fine. He could do this.

He checked the tuck of his shirt and fixed his cufflinks as he pulled on the version of himself he needed for this to work. The Nikolai Tkachenko who was cold and unfeeling. The man his father had spent so long beating him into.

It was a second skin, one he hated but needed.

He strode back to the bedroom to wait for his delivery.

Ten minutes later Nikolai heard his new captive before he saw him. He wasn’t loud, but Nikolai could hear harsh, wet breaths and bitten off cries as he was brought further into the house.

They turned the corner and Nikolai saw them, Pyotr and Alex dragging a smaller figure between them. The kid still had the black bag on his head, and was slumped between the two larger men.

Nikolai had seen dozens of photos of Elliot Brooks over the last few weeks in preparation for this, but his smallness still struck him. He was quivering, hands zip tied together in front of him in a way that made him look fragile.

Nikolai frowned as he looked over Brooks's wrists. He’d been restrained for less than an hour, so why was there already so much damage to his wrists?

“Trouble?” Nikolai asked Pyotr in Russian as he led them into the bedroom.

“No boss.” Pyotr didn’t appear harried.

Another heart-wrenching sound came from under the bag, a sob that was quickly stifled. It was almost worse than the pleas Nikolai had been expecting to hear.

Nikolai nodded, forcing his face into stone.

“Mr. Brooks,” he addressed the kid, pitching his voice down. “You are not in danger. Please be calming down.”

When Nikolai pulled the bag off, Brooks flinched and tried to step back, but couldn’t. He was still being held between Pyotr and Alex. The zip ties around his wrists strained as he pulled them, and his shoulders shook with another sob.

It was uncomfortable to look at him. Nikolai had seen the face in candids going to and from the diner, but Brooks had only looked withdrawn or harried in those.

Now there were tear tracks down his cheeks, those big hazel eyes red and puffy from crying. His chestnut hair was messy and sweat-stuck to his forehead, his pale skin splotchy from distress.

The overall effect was enough to make anyone feel bad.

Or maybe it was just that he was so pretty and soft that it was hard to see him so scared. Brooks was twenty-six, Nikolai knew from his background check, but he looked so much younger here. He looked innocent and out of his league.

Nikolai had to remind himself that Brooks ending up here wasn’t because Nikolai was being the bad guy. That this was necessary.

When the first set of photos had come to Nikolai’s email, he’d looked upon Elliot Brooks, their potential target, and needed no further explanation as to why Vitale had chosen him. Brooks was young, beautiful, and no doubt eager to trade his looks for the money and perks Vitale could provide.

It was obvious too why Vitale kept Brooks under lock and key. Why they’d had to organize his abduction around the one time he was ever let out of that penthouse fortress.

Nikolai was still curious about the diner. About why Brooks had been allowed to go there at all. Alone. No one he’d had tailing Brooks could give Nikolai a definite answer other than Brooks worked there.

But why did Brooks need a job at all?

He pulled his thoughts back to the situation at hand. Brooks’s sweet features tugged at Nikolai's heartstrings, but Nikolai couldn’t afford to be swayed. He kept his face stern. Expressionless.

“My name Nikolai Tkachenko,” he said to Brooks. “Are you knowing this name?”

Being directly addressed seemed to help. The kid looked at him with wide eyes, tears still streaming down his cheeks, but he shook his head.

“Recently your lover, Vitale, fucked with my business,” Nikolai said. “He went back on a deal. You are here so he is agreeing to follow the rules. You understand?”

Brooks sucked in a hitched breath. “Follow… the rules?” He asked, voice a tiny, tremulous thing.

Nikolai stared at him, and Brooks's gaze immediately dropped to the floor, his breath coming faster. “Sorry! Yes, okay, yes I-I understand.”

But Nikolai was struck by his clear confusion.

Was Brooks somehow unaware of his lover's work? Surely he had to know of it, would recognize what Nikolai was saying, even if the words were vague. Who didn’t question the amount of money a man like Vitale was bringing in?

He lived in one of the nicest penthouses in the city. That didn’t just happen.

Nikolai stepped forward, closer to Brooks.

He was almost a head taller than him, and Nikolai took no pleasure from the way the man shrank back from him.

Nikolai knew how he looked when he was suited up and ready to handle business, because he’d designed it to be intimidating.

Even if he wasn’t his father, he’d inherited a lot of the man’s looks.

He had the height, the shoulders, the dimpled chin that was a signature of Tkachenko men.

Nikolai still resented it, but it came in handy.

When he’d been getting his businesses off the ground and managing the unsavory bits that involved skirting the law, his physical presence had been an asset.

The same was true when he had to do his duty and manage his father’s businesses.

People who might have messed with him took one look at his face and thought better of it.

Not to mention that his father didn’t come to America often, but his reputation spanned in certain circles

This kid didn’t need to be intimidated, but Nikolai supposed it couldn’t hurt.

“I’m expect cooperation,” he said to Brooks. “If you are causing trouble, Pyotr or Alex will teach you manners.”

Brooks nodded rapidly. He looked terrified. Nikolai had to stomp down on the urge to reassure him. This was not a situation where he could comfort. He was the one who’d kidnapped Brooks in the first place.

“Vitale will require proof of life,” Nikolai said, gesturing toward the bed.

Pyotr and Alex nodded, moving Brooks toward the bed, and the kid started crying again, actually starting to struggle.

“Please—” he gasped. “Please don’t— please—”

“You will cooperate,” Nikolai growled at him.

Brooks choked on a sob and went limp. Nikolai's men delivered him to the bed without further issue, sitting him at the foot, unharmed.

Alex stayed close by while Pyotr went back to the door to stand guard. The kid made another small, broken sound.

“Did you check his things?” Nikolai asked Alex, who had what appeared to be a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Yessir. His phone and smartwatch are in the black box in the car. He had the backpack on him, which we scanned, but it doesn’t have any tech in it. Just some personal stuff.”

Brooks gasped when he caught sight of the bag, and his zip tied hands curled together nervously.

Hm .

One thing at a time. Nikolai pulled out his phone and opened the camera, holding up the phone to get Brooks in frame. The kid’s breathing was fast, probably too fast, as more tears spilled down his cheeks, and Nikolai stared at him, debating whether or not to say something.

“Proof,” Nikolai finally said simply. Then, without waiting for a reply, he snapped a couple photos.

In all of them Brooks was glossy eyed, pink cheeked, and zip tied.

He looked worse than he was, which Nikolai should be grateful for, but the fact that the kid was here at all only made him feel guilty.

“Now the bag.” Nikolai shoved his phone back in his pocket and held his hand out for the backpack. He didn’t miss the way Brooks stiffened, the way he leaned forward as if he wanted to grab for it.